"Lord, What Fools These Mortals Be!"

[Teach]

"Lord, What Fools These Mortals Be!"

In the spring of 1968, I was teaching history on Long Island. One Friday in April, several students from our junior high, mostly English and social studies classes, were bussed to Stratford, CT to see the presentation of Shakespeare’s “A Midsummer Night’s Dream”. I was one of the chaperones.

As I recall, there was a concession stand in the lobby of what was called the American Shakespeare Theater. Between acts, I stopped to get a soft drink (I would have preferred an ice-cold, frosty beer, but it wouldn’t have been appropriate). It was at this time that I met Sarah. Sarah Livingstone. She broached the conversation. “You like Shakespeare?” she asked, rhetorically. What was I to say? A beautiful young woman is standing directly in front of me. “Yes, I do like Shakespeare.” I answered. In reality, I was not a Shakespeare fan, not that I had anything against “The Bard,” it’s just that his plays were not at the top of my hit parade. In fact, Puck’s “Lord, What Fools These Mortals Be!” may have been the only line I knew from the play.

It was then that I introduced myself. We carried on a brief conversation. “Where do you teach, Walt?” I told her Manhasset. I asked her where she taught. She told me she taught literature at The Chapin School in New York City. Gauche, callow, “wet-behind-the-ears” me. I had never heard of one of the most prestigious, private all-girls schools in the country. She went on to say that the school’s motto was: “Fortiter et Recte”. I understood that. Six years of Latin will do that. It means: “Bravely and Rightly”. Just before I left, Sarah handed me her card. It was a business card that read: “Shakespearean Tutor.” As I headed back into the theater, I thought, “Just what I need, a Shakespearean tutor!” Now, if Sarah’s card had read: “Sex therapist.”

About two weeks had gone by since our school’s visit to the Shakespearean Theater. I recall I was cleaning out my wallet, an annual “spring cleaning” ritual. I happened to notice that my Boston Public Library card had expired. It was then that I noticed the business card that Sarah Livingstone had given me.

I decided to give her a call. My call went something like this: “Hi Sarah, it’s Walt. We met at the Shakespearean Theater. I’m calling to see if you’d like to go out Saturday evening.” Sarah replied, “I’m available, but there’s one wrinkle.” Sarah went on to say that from 7 to 9 p.m. she was having a meeting of her Shakespearean Discussion Group. She then suggested that I come to the discussion group to meet her friends and to take part in the discussion. I remember her then saying, “Afterwards, we could go out for a repast.” Repast. Give me a break! What are her next two words I’m gonna hear? Victuals and viands.

Yet despite my misgivings, I decided to take Sarah up on her Shakespearean discussion group and the “repast,” afterwards. Before she hung up, she told me that she lived in a Manhattan apartment at 995 Fifth Avenue. I subsequently looked it up. The apartment building overlooked Central Park. Posh (an acronym: Port-side out; starboard home). It wasn’t far from the Delacorte Theater’s “Shakespeare in The Park”. How appropriate.

That Saturday evening I arrived at Sarah’s apartment building (I remember there was a doorman). When I entered her apartment. There were a half-a-dozen other people there. I have to assume they were all Shakespearean aficionados. Sarah introduced me. “Everyone, this is Walt. I met him in at Stratford’s Shakespearean theater.” At that moment, I half-expected to hear someone to call out: “Hail fellow, well met!”

One by one, each of Sarah’s friends introduced themselves. They were all nattily attired. One guy had on an ascot. Frankly, I felt out of place, especially from the clothing standpoint. I was wearing a blue broadcloth shirt (my mother did buy it at Brooks Brothers), neatly pressed slacks, and loafers.

I remember that one woman was in the group was named Natalie (I use mnemonics to remember names). Natalie bore a passing resemblance to the actress Natalie Wood. I easily recalled her name. One down and five to go.

The meeting was now getting under way. The topic for that evening was “Romeo & Juliet.” One of the participants got the ball rolling (I believe his name was Chauncey). He said, “Why don’t we begin by discussing “the balcony scene”? “Who’ll get us started?” he asked. “I’ll start,” Sarah said. Sarah began by saying that she felt that the “balcony scene” was the most beautiful scene in the whole play. She goes on to say that, metaphorically speaking, Juliet is the sun and Romeo is the moon. Sarah continues by saying that this light/dark motif is a thread that runs throughout the play.
Everyone, in turn, was asked for their comments. I have to admit the whole thing was very scholarly. But you’d have to have been an English Lit. major with a strong background in Shakespeare to have really appreciated it. I’m not. Now, if the group were discussing baseball and the Boston Red Sox’s chances of playing in the World Series, I would have really enjoyed it. Fat chance.

As the discussion went on, I made the best of it. I believe it was Natalie who asked me my thoughts on Shakespeare. I told her and the group that I had read some of his plays in both high school and college. I then added that the musical, “West Side Story,” was based on “Romeo & Juliet.” Duh! I believe everyone in the group already knew that.

It was then, tangentially, that a fella named Rex picked up on my Boston accent. He asked, “Did you go to Harvard?” I said, “No, Boston University.” At that moment, I couldn’t resist doing my Harvard Yard parody. I said: “Pahk yah cah in Hahvahd Yahd.” I then added, “Remembah to uze yah blinkah.” Rex laughed. Yet, seconds later, Rex, a Princeton grad, said, “If you’re not careful, I’ll sing you my version of “Old Nassau.”

Mercifully, at least from my standpoint, this Shakespeare meeting was coming to an end. Sarah and I were now free to enjoy, as she had put it, a repast. Sarah recommended we go down to what she called a “tea house” that was on the southern end of Central Park; it was near Madison Ave. She went on to say we could have a “spot of tea” and some petit fours or scones. We finally arrived at the “tea house.” I looked at the menu. I thought to myself: pricey. Whenever I had a cup of tea, I’d drop a tea bag in a mug and add hot water. Here they charged you $2 for the privilege. The petit fours and scones were also quite expensive.

As we sipped on our $2 teas, I asked Sarah where she was originally from. She said she was born right here in Manhattan. She added that her father was a direct descendant of Robert Livingstone. She went on to say that Robert Livingstone was one of the signers of the Declaration of Independence. She further mentioned that she had gone to college at Bryn Mawr. I would tell Sarah a bit about myself and my background. I told her where I had lived and the schools I had attended.

After the “meal,” we went back to her place. As we’re riding back, I really don’t know what to make of this situation. I’m out of my league. A “blue-blood,” I ain’t. I’m the grandson of immigrant stock. Sarah, on the other hand, probably has a family-tree filled with descendants who came over on The Mayflower, or who are Daughters of the American Revolution, or F.F.V. (First Families of Virginia). One thing I will say, she was intelligent and also very attractive.

When we got back to her apartment I wasn’t sure how I wanted to do this. I could just say: “good-night,” or I could try for what I call “extra-curricular” activities, e.g., petting, necking., etc. I decided to go for the latter, especially when Sarah invited me to sit down on the couch next to her. Yet, as soon as I made the slightest of advances, she backed off. However, I had one more card to play. I knew I had to pull “a rabbit out of a hat”. It called for an unusual approach. As a former nerd (“former”), I had played a lot of chess.

I would begin: “By a name I know not how to tell thee who I am.
My name, dear saint, is hateful to myself. Because it is an enemy to thee.
Had I it written, I would tear the word.”

Sarah responds: “My ears have not yet drunk a hundred words
Of that tongue’s uttering, yet I know the sound.
Art thou not Romeo, and a Montague?”
(At this moment, I move closer to Sarah. She not pulling away. I put my arm around her).

I reply: “Neither, fair maid, if either thee dislike.”
(I then kiss Sarah on the cheek; she’s receptive).

Sarah replies: “How camest thou hither, tell me, and wherefore?
The orchard walls are high and hard to climb,
And the place death, considering who thou art,
If any of my kinsmen find thee here.”
(Sarah kisses me on the lips).

I say: “With love’s light wings did I o'erperch these walls,
For stony limits cannot hold love out,
And what love can do, that dares love attempt.
Therefore thy kinsmen are no stop to me.”
(Soon, we are kissing, passionately).

Sarah concludes: “If they do see thee they will murder thee.”
(We’re locked in an embrace. Our passionate kissing continues).

In the end, that was about as far as it went. No carnal knowledge. It was fun while it lasted. We simply ran out of lines.

As a postscript, I never saw Sarah Livingstone again. The gap was just too great. And, besides, I wasn’t about to start memorizing lines from Shakespeare’s plays to have an amorous relationship.

Exeunt.

[Actor]

"Let me not play a woman. I have a beard coming."

The actor delivered this line as a whine. As though his objection to playing a woman was that he'd have to shave. But in Shakespearean England women were not allowed to perform on stage, therefore women were played by boys. The line should be delivered as a pitch that, since he has a beard coming, he is now qualified to play a male part.